


To Thee, I Pledge

by EmeraldSage



Series: The Holiday Collection [29]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Explicit but not too explicit, I could scream, Long-lasting relationship, M/M, Prompt Day 29: St. Basil's Cathedral, RusAmeHoliday, Undoubtedly RusAme, almost done, so happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 01:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9099736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: RusAme Holiday Prompt #29: Saint Basil's Cathedral





	

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know where the title came from. Really. Although, honestly, I had intended to make this more religious centric (kinda like with all the religious metaphors that James Baldwin makes and stuff), but it...turned out like this. Hope it's okay!

            It was grand; twirling, colorful, and utterly beautiful in a way most people underestimated. It represented his lover so stunningly, though many would not think so. The grand cathedral was older than he was, technically. And no one, sometimes not even Russia, could remember why it was built the way it was, and for what reason. Whenever he did ask – though rarely, because often they had other things in mind – Russia always had a different answer for him, never sure what the _real_ one was, or if there even was one.

            Sometimes, he was sure his lover did it on purpose. Others, he was certain it was genuine. Either way, the Cathedral was beautiful, and he treasured every chance he got to see something his lover treasured so dearly.

            It wasn’t a _real_ Cathedral, in the way that it only held a service once a year, but it used to be. It was a museum now, and though he knew the tour by heart, he settled contentedly against his lover as the migrated through the Cathedral, climbing stairs, admiring the mosaics, and wondering what it would’ve been like to kneel during a service and let himself be taken away, adrift on the ever changing wind created by the prayers of those around him.

            “ _Dorogoy,_ ” a soft murmur came to him from his left, and his eyes slid from the twirling mosaic to his lover’s violet eyes. They were eyeing him warmly, gently, as if he was all that was present amongst them even as the rest of the world faded into focus, and he smiled. “ _They’re moving into the next chapel, shall we go?”_ his counterpart spoke softly in fluid Russian and he quirked his lips but nodded.

            “ _Is it the Chapel of St. Nicholas next?”_ he asked, with a fluidity that seemed almost equal to his lover’s, but to his partner’s centuries of experienced observation could discern the split second of hesitation that came with the usage of a less-used, second learned language. England didn’t often notice, or notice at all, that the English he used was spoken in a similar manner.

            He rather doubted that England wanted to contemplate the intricacies of how his former colony had lived before he’d been “civilized” but America never forgot, regardless of how his people treated each other.

            But he set aside his increasingly bitter thoughts in favor of following the tour group they’d gone in with. He’d grown to look forward to spending time with his lover, especially in the increasingly chaotic and shifting world. Back when they’d started this tradition, he’d still been amongst the early years of his republic, and his fascination with the rest of the world had yet to extend to their cultures. He’d found the culture of Europe to be so vastly different than that of his own people, materialistic and cold in a way his effervescent young government had not been. He had gone along with Russia to the Cathedral, only a few centuries old then, and immersed himself in the environment to make his new friend happy. And it had, indeed, made him happy. Somehow, it turned into a tradition; every time he was in Russia for a long visit – usually every decade or so, much to England’s steaming disapproval – Russia would whisk him off to see the Cathedral. And over time, he’d grown to care very much about the culture his friend had taken so much pride in. Soon enough, they’d moved from friends to something _more_ , and that care grew into love.

            He’d done his best not to miss their once a decade tradition, no matter what befell him. In 1860, on the brink of Civil War, he’d snuck across the Aleutian Islands through the cold heart of winter, and surprised his then-friend in a determined effort to see the Cathedral after it had been repainted and reconstructed. During the rule of the Soviet Union, he’d snuck into the USSR – carefully, for he _knew_ how delicate the situation was; FDR had been very clear on that before he’d passed, god rest his soul – after the daring protest of architect Pyotr Baranovsky had saved the Cathedral from demolition.

            He’d been unsurprised, for the most part, when Russia had caught him by the arm as he’d been wandering through the Cathedral. The way he’d been caught resembled a hold most men would put their lovers in – a patronizing, decidedly feminine hold that had him half livid and half flushed in a mix of embarrassment and something else – but the grip was bruising and made no mistake that, despite his disguise, Russia knew exactly whom he’d caught.

            But Russia had not said a word, not to him and not to anyone else, about him being somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be near. His Russian was good enough to pass under close inspection, and it was likely only Russia would ever truly be able to discern his accent as foreign, so he met no trouble with the people around them. They’d used the vague indiscernibility they had about them as nations, something he’d probably compare to the forget-me-not charm from _Harry Potter_ if he wanted to annoy England, and walked through the chapel halls together. Russia made it clear he was to leave as soon as he could, after they’d left the chapel together, quiet and reminiscing, but the elder nation had refused to relinquish him before he’d pushed him down against his bed and had his way.

            They’d parted at dawn, when he’d snuck away from Russia’s then home while he’d been, in theory, asleep. But it hadn’t stopped the almost dutiful rendezvous when it came to the Cathedral.

            “ _You’re distracted today,”_ Russia’s voice mused thoughtfully from his left, and the hold on his waist tightened for a split second before it relaxed. He blinked and glanced over to the elder nation, taking note of how they’d already passed through the chapel they’d been speaking of earlier. He hummed, slightly surprised, before offering an apologetic smile to the other.

            “ _Sorry,_ ” he offered, “ _Just, being here brings back old memories._ ” Russia hummed softly, curling him close in a way they couldn’t afford to do if they hadn’t been nations, knowing they wouldn’t be seen, before dropping a brief, chaste kiss to his lips.

            There was a brief silence, before the taller nation offered, “ _The tour is almost over,_ ” a sly smirk curled on those lips and he raised a brow, “ _We can leave if you want. No one will say a thing._ ”

            There was still half an hour left of the tour, but a mischievous smile twisted his lips, and he said “ _Why not?_ ” because he was well aware of what they’d do instead.

* * *

             _It’s been too long_ , he thought, far too breathless for actual speech. Though he was sure that if he’d managed to express his thoughts, the elder nation would concur. That was the whole point of meeting so urgently after their latest disaster had emerged; screw what the rest of the world thought they were doing with each other.

            He’d rather Ivan just keep doing what he was doing.

            A breath later, a curl of fingers sensually against that magical spot within him, and he was seeing stars, biting back a cry that would have his lover grinning wickedly. As much as they loved each other, they were nations still, and Russia very much loved to see America splayed out underneath him, taking whatever he was willing to give. Of course, the fact was reciprocated, though not as often. He didn’t mind bottoming – sometimes, it was far more satisfying to top from the bottom; boy, _that_ had been an experience – preferred it to some degree. But they were equals in their relationship, as far as their human relationship went, and they did switch. Though certainly not after such a long time since they’d been together.

            Obviously, it hadn’t been long enough if Ivan remembered exactly what it took to leave him a writhing mess splayed out on his bed. He pushed against those magic fingers doing their work, and wasn’t quite able to keep the moan from slipping from his lips. Breathless, sweaty, and more than ready to move forward, he pushed himself up to press an insistent kiss to his partner’s lips, deepening it until it was passionate, filthy, and everything that had once scandalized his puritanical values until Ivan had taught him about taking _pleasure_ in life.

            They broke from the kiss, panting and breathless, but Ivan had enough control to push him backwards, down upon the soft, downy duvet, and he thumped onto the fabric, tilting his head back to catch his breath. He could feel strong hands spreading his thighs apart even more than they had been, pulling him down the bed until he’d had one leg slung around his shoulder and one curled around his waist. They grinded together, and for one beautiful moment, he could feel the curl of release building deep within his gut.

            Then Ivan was gone, and he nearly groaned in protest. But he was back within an instance, and Alfred could feel the insistent lips leaving a trail of possessive marks lining his neck and down his body. There was something hard pressed against his ass, and he tilted his lips up to meet Ivan’s in an utterly _filthy_ kiss as the other moved to claim his body while he urged him on.

* * *

            Alfred curled against his lover in the aftermath of their lovemaking, sweaty, tired, and very loved regardless. He curled his arm around the other nation’s shoulders, feeling the scratch marks he’d left, just as potently possessive as Ivan’s claims peppering his neck and body in various visible places he would have to cover up before any other nation ever saw him. An arm settled around his waist in turn, and he exchanged matching sleepy smiles with his lover.

            It had definitely been too long. But it had been entirely worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like giving Russia some love. He’s really due for some attention here, I feel like I’ve been writing America so much, I’ve been neglecting him. I think this one and tomorrow's will be more Russia centric (I hope).


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